


Reunion

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Love, M/M, Nerves, Not Series 3 Related, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sad John, Sentiment, Sherlock returns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2032527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What should have happened when Sherlock returned after the Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock's Return

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

He hadn't spent enough time with Mrs Hudson; John knew that and had felt so terribly guilty. But now that he'd come back to see her, that guilt was slowly ebbing away as it was now being replaced with sadness and a different kind of guilt. John climbed the stairs slowly and pushed open the door, looking around the dark flat, swallowing a heavy lump in his throat. He had moved out because the memories were too much, but he wasn't working too much and his pension wasn't working and he needed the deal that Mrs Hudson could give him. It wasn't going to be easy. 

Sherlock sat in the back of the car. His conversation with Mycroft had annoyed him. Why had Mycroft said those things about John? Sherlock hadn't changed, had he? God knows, Mycroft hadn't changed -- so why would John? He cursed his brother's taking pleasure in watching Sherlock suffer. He cleared his mind of that, watching out the window, waiting for the city he missed.

John started to clean up a bit, the process taking much longer than it should have because memories kept coming up and harassing him. Maybe this wasn't a good idea after all. He should have brought someone with him.   

Coming into the city, Sherlock was a little overwhelmed. He recognised things, but there was a difference, a distance. He felt like the pictures that had been in his head for so long were like memories of a dream.

"Baker Street," he said to the driver.

John sighed and put down the papers he was holding, sinking down into his chair and burying his face in his hands. Perhaps he couldn't do this after all. Maybe he could take the basement flat -- get the deal but stay away from the painful memories. 

Sherlock got out of the car and stood, looking at the building. He should go see Mrs Hudson first, she could give him the lay of the land, let him know what to expect regarding John. But then he thought he saw movement in the upstairs window. If John wasn't at Baker Street anymore as Mycroft had said, who was in their flat? As quickly and as quietly as possible, he unlocked the door and rushed up the stairs, stopping to see if he could hear what was going on inside.

John turned and heard the movement on the stairs, standing up again and thinking it was Mrs Hudson. He didn't want to her to see him upset but he did need to ask about the other flat. "Mrs Hudson?" 

John's voice. God, how Sherlock had missed it.

Mycroft was wrong. John hadn't left Baker Street. John had been waiting for him. And now he was back. Yet Sherlock couldn't open the door. He had thought about this moment a million times, but here it was and all the plans that had helped keep him sane these last two years, all the scenarios he had imagined, none of them seemed right. None seemed worthy of this moment.

So he swallowed and, without saying anything, pushed open the door.

John looked up and felt his face pale, his stomach dropped right to the floor and his legs buckle beneath him. He actually had to grip the chair to keep himself standing. "Y-you . . ." he stammered, stopping to take a deep breath. This was . . .how could he be here? Alive? No. He had finally lost his mind and was seeing things. 

Sherlock rushed to John, but stopped when he righted himself on the chair. He looked at John's face -- whatever reaction Sherlock had expected to see, it was not this. This was something he had never seen on John's face: doubt. Sherlock wasn't totally sure what it meant, but it didn't feel good.

"I'm home, John," Sherlock said, "I'm sorry."

"Home?" John said quietly, taking shallow, quick breaths. He said that so easily, like he had just been out for the groceries. John almost fell over again and his hand tightened on the chair. "You -- how could you?"

"John, settle down, sit down, I will explain everything," Sherlock said. "It's over now and everything is all right."

"All right?" John shouted, pushing him away. "How can it be all right? You're -- why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't, John. He'd have killed you. Please, I will explain, but just . . ."

John was shaking his head, trying to comprehend all of this. "You've been alive . . .all this time . . .and I was . . .grieving," he mumbled. He looked up at Sherlock and pushed him again. "I've been grieving!" he shouted. 

"I'm sorry -- you had to be seen to grieve, they had to believe I was dead," Sherlock said, stepping back from John. "I couldn't get in touch until things were over, I couldn't . . . I couldn't risk your life. I'm sorry. . . Please don't be so upset."

"Don't be upset? Do you have any idea what it's been like, Sherlock? Any idea at all?" John thought about the therapy and the grieving and he suddenly felt so embarrassed, like it had all been for nothing. 

"John, I've had a hard time as well, you know. I know it hurt you, but I had no choice."

"No choice?" John laughed sarcastically. "I couldn't get one word? Not one little sign?" he snapped. 

"Don't you think I wanted to? Don't you think it kill-," he paused, "don't you think it was difficult for me . . . leaving everyone? Leaving you? I couldn't . . ."

John squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. "I had to move out. I had to go back to therapy. I . . ." his voice cracked and he paused for a second. "I missed you too much," he mumbled.

"I don't--what do you mean you moved out? What are you doing here then? Why would you move out? Where did you go?" Now Sherlock couldn't understand -- was this what Mycroft meant about John moving on with life?

"Of course I moved out! Everything here hurt, Sherlock. I was having nightmares and I wasn't eating . . . I had to get away. It was killing me," he said, meeting Sherlock's eyes. "I haven't been able to work that much . . . I can't really get my head in my work so I couldn't pay for my flat. I was hoping I could come back here but . . ." he trailed off a bit embarrassed. 

Sherlock sat down on the sofa. He flicked his memory back -- all the times he'd imagined this reunion -- what had he been thinking? Had he really been so stupid to not consider the complexities or had he just been too afraid to? It had been so easy to control John's reactions when he'd been imagining it; he had let himself forget how sensitive John was, how vulnerable. Now . . . it was so horrible and Sherlock was so unprepared.

"Come back now," he said softly, not looking up at John. "Come back home . . . with me."

John gasped softly at his soft tone because it was so very unlike Sherlock. He had expected -- what? A lecture on sentiment? To be laughed at for believing Sherlock had really been dead? He let go of the chair finally and stepped forward, just a little bit. "How are we just going to go on like nothing happened?" he asked quietly. "Who knows you're back?" He wondered who knew he wasn't really dead and he wondered if he was really ready to hear that.  

"Right now, only Mycroft knows I'm back. I haven't even spoken to Mrs Hudson yet," Sherlock said. "I thought I'd know how to tell people . . . but I've not done so well with you." He crossed and uncrossed his legs. "I have been out of practice with trying to think of others' feelings, John, but don't think for a moment I've forgotten the things you've shown me about . . . friendship. I did what I did to protect you. It wasn't easy. I've come home now, I wanted it to be easy but I see I was unrealistic."

"You were . . . we thought you were dead, Sherlock. I held -- Christ, I held your bleeding body! We buried you," he said quietly. "You couldn't just . . . come back like nothing . . . you had to know that," he said as he sat down on his own chair. It made him dizzy. It had been so long and he never thought he'd see Sherlock there, across from him, again. 

"What should I have done, John? Called or sent a text or --" he stopped himself.

John shook his head. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's not going to be easy finding out, you know? But maybe be a bit gentler with Mrs Hudson instead of just walking in on her?" He smiled -- actually smiled -- at Sherlock. Now that he was calming down a bit he realised that -- Sherlock being Sherlock -- he really should have seen this coming. 

Sherlock saw John's smile. He had really missed it, missed John. Knowing he'd see him again one day had helped him through the last two years -- he realised now that John hadn't been able to cling to that hope like Sherlock had. "I'm sorry," Sherlock said again quietly. He looked around the flat, remembering. "I don't think I can face any one else today, John."

John nodded. "Look . . . I was checking out the flat to move back in -- if I don't let Mrs Hudson know she'll come up looking for me. I am going to tell her I'm moving back and I'm going to get my stuff from my flat and I will be back, okay? Just stay here -- hidden, just in case she does come up. I'll tell her not to."

"John," Sherlock said, "You're not obliged . . . I can stay somewhere else. Take the flat back, I can help contribute the money, but don't feel obliged to allow me to stay." He stood up awkwardly. "I'm sorry."

"Sherlock, I almost asked for the basement flat because the thought of living here without you was making me sad. I missed you. And now you're home. You asked me to come home with you -- don't you still want that?"

"John, there is nothing I want more than that," Sherlock said, trying to meet his gaze. "But I think I underestimated the hurt I've caused. What I want doesn't matter. . . what you need at the moment is the most important thing."

"I need . . . I need to be here with you. I need to know how and why so that I can have closure, okay? I'm hurt, yes . . . but I need to, okay? Will you be able to talk about it with me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I will. Whatever you need."

John nodded and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Okay, right. I'm going to be back in about an hour, okay?" He moved slowly, looked back at Sherlock once more and left. He stopped down at Mrs Hudson's and told her that he would be moving in and interrupted her to inform her she really didn't need to clean up. He promised he would take care of all of it and then left. His flat wasn't very far but he took a cab anyways, wanting to get back quickly.

A small part of him was weary, sure that Sherlock wasn't really there, that he'd imagined the whole thing and he was going to go back to an empty flat feeling very foolish. Trying to ignore that suspicion, he packed up everything he owned -- most of it still packed away anyway -- and forty minutes later he was in a cab on his way back. He picked up some Chinese and slowly hauled his bag up the stairs to the flat.

Sherlock wandered around the flat. It was his home, he had missed his home. He had missed his things -- he looked around at his desk, his papers, his books, he had missed it all. But most of all he had missed John. Because John is what made this home.

He stood behind the curtain, peeking out the window. He had done this everyday during their time together, something so little, so meaningless. He knew how much it all meant now. He saw John's taxi pull up. He smiled. He felt the tension in his body release just a little.

John came back up the stairs, hauling his bag and holding the Chinese food in the other hand. He knew that this was going to get very emotional. If Sherlock was going to talk about his adventures then John would have to as well and it was going to be sad and embarrassing and the thought made his pause on the landing floor a moment. He sighed. They just had to get it over with and move on. He walked into the flat and put his bag down. "I brought dinner. I didn't know if you'd be hungry."

"Thanks," Sherlock said awkwardly. "You've had time to think about this: are you sure? Tell me what I can do and I will try to do it."

John set his bag down and moved into the kitchen. "Um . . . I know this is going to be really difficult but I just want to talk, okay? If we're going to live together again we have to get it all out now. What you did for two years, what I did -- all of it."

Sherlock looked up at John for a moment. What John had done? Sherlock had been expecting John to have questions, but he hadn't thought he would. He felt a wave of acknowledgement: _this_ had been what Mycroft was mocking -- Sherlock's assumption that John's life in London would have stopped with Sherlock's exit. Suddenly he was reminded of how far behind he was in his best friend's life. What had John been doing? He had been excluded from so many months, days, hours of John's life -- and he was now jealous of everyone who had been there. The woman at the shop, the cab driver, the patients at John's surgery -- everyone who had seen or talked to John over the past two years, everyone who had played even a momentary role in John's life, when Sherlock couldn't.

He didn't know if he could take hearing about John's life without him.

"That day," he said, sitting down, "he had snipers, they had to see me jump. It had to look like he'd . . . won. There was no other way. I'm sorry." He fiddled with the food. "He's dead. I had to hide for a while and then I went back to work. I probably can't tell you all the details, but that's what I was doing while I was gone: bringing it all to a close. And then Mycroft brought me back."

John was picking at his food, taking small bites, staring at Sherlock. He couldn't take his eyes off of him. It had been so long, too long. He listened, knowing there was more to the story. "What does 'bringing it all to a close' mean? Where were you? Were you alone? Were you hurt?" John imagined the worst kind of scenarios -- Sherlock being kidnapped, tortured, alone, cold, hungry, hurt -- and it made his stomach turn. He pushed his food away.

"Yes, I was usually alone. And yes, I was sometimes hurt," Sherlock said honestly. "I was mostly out of the country. Mycroft got me in Serbia. Moriarty's network was wide, but it's over with now. It's all . . . over with now."

John nodded. "I -- I would have come with you. I would have helped you," he mumbled pointlessly. He knew he would have just slowed Sherlock down, possibly gotten him killed, even himself killed, but he said it anyways because the thought of Sherlock being alone out there really bothered him. 

Sherlock smiled at John. "If I could have taken you, John, I would have," he said softly. "I missed you. Even more than I expected to."

John took a deep breath and nodded. "I missed you, too," he said, looking up at Sherlock again. 

"I will try to explain more later if I can or . . . I needn't if you'd rather not know the details, if you do want us to just delete that from our memories," Sherlock said. "I have work to do for Mycroft and I would like your help, but first, John, I want to help you . . . help you feel okay about all this. If you can . . ."

"It's -- I'll need some time. It's just a bit hard to believe, you know? "

"It is," Sherlock said but then smiled, "but a lot we're been through is rather hard to believe, wouldn't you say?" He shifted on the sofa, realising that, even though John was just on the other side of the room, he felt too far away. "I don't mean to make light of it . . . is there anything else you want to ask or say now? We can keep talking as long as you need. If you come up with a question in the middle of the night, you can come ask. I just don't know what else to say right now."

"Would you have come back if Mycroft hadn't come for you?" John thought about living the rest of his life thinking that Sherlock was gone when he really wasn't. Not that he'd have known the difference but seeing him now made that thought a hundred times worse. 

"I was going to come back as soon as I could. It was never supposed to be forever, John," Sherlock said.

"Right," John nodded, "I didn't know." He wasn't sure how that made him felt. "I -- I'm glad you're back. Even though I'm upset."

"I'm glad I'm back too, John . . . even though you're upset," Sherlock said. "I can't begin to tell you . . . how good it was to see your face. You, better than anyone, know that sentiment does not come easily to me, and I've been on my own in situations where sentiment had no place. But seeing you and being here . . . " his voice trailed because he didn't have the words or perhaps even the ability to comprehend what he really wanted to express.

John nodded and looked down. "I dreamt about you coming home," he said. "So many times. And the fact that it's happening it's just . . . sorry, I know I keep repeating myself."

Sherlock, too, had dreamt of John, but he wasn't sure if he should say, so he said, "It's okay, John. I don't think there are rules for how to respond to this." Sherlock realised that he and John had not touched yet -- John's shoving didn't really count. It seemed unusual; Sherlock had seen people reunite in life and on television, there was usually touching involved. In Sherlock's dreams, there usually was. He wasn't sure what the lack of it meant. Had the time passed? He had no confidence in his ability to judge the appropriate way to behave in this situation.

So instead he said, "So no one's been in the flat since you moved out? It barely looks touched."

John shook his head. "I left two months after that day and Mrs Hudson says she wasn't able to let it out." He glanced up nervously, knowing that now they would get into his side of things and he didn't know if he wanted to.

"Do you want to say where you went when you left?" Sherlock said. "You don't have to share anything you don't want to." What would he share? Anxiety made Sherlock's stomach hurt, knowing that John had a right to share or not share whatever he wanted and that he had a responsibility to listen to whatever John wanted him to know.

"I went to my old bedsit -- the place I lived in before I met you," John said. He was torn between telling Sherlock everything and just keeping quiet. Could he? How well could they live together if he kept it all bottled up? The thing was that he knew -- or he thought he knew -- that Sherlock was going to feel guilty about how affected John had actually been. Despite everything, John didn't want him to feel that way. 

Part of the problem, Sherlock realised, is that he hated not having been a part of John's life the last two years so much that it hurt him to hear about it, but how could they go back to how they were, if he just ignored that part of John's life? This is about whatever John wanted, he reminded himself. "Wasn't that also hard -- going back to the place you were before . . .?" Before what, Sherlock thought. Before me. Before us. That's what he meant, but that's not what he said. "Go on," Sherlock said.

"Not as much as I thought. It was so dull . . . it did help with the nightmares. Eventually, anyways."

"I'm sorry that I hurt you," Sherlock said. "I wish I could change everything." He leaned over and put his head in his hands. This was too difficult. "John," he said without saying anymore.

John looked up at him and felt his vision blur. It wasn't fair. He had been hurt, completely broken when Sherlock left and now he was suddenly back and -- and John's heart was breaking because Sherlock was feeling bad. He should feel bad! He should be begging for John's forgiveness! But John couldn't do that. He shoved his feelings aside and shook his head. "Don't, okay? It's all done now," he said quietly. 

"It isn't, John, don't do that," Sherlock said. "Don't look after me. Let me look after you, at least for a little while." He couldn't look at him. "Say what you want to say or say nothing. Decide what you need and let me give it to you."

"I can't," he admitted. It was too hard to talk about. Especially when he knew his words were going to hurt -- not only Sherlock but himself as he relived it. How many times had he pictured this moment in his head? Finding Sherlock by accident and just letting him have it -- screaming at him about all the pain he'd caused. But he always woke up feeling sad and guilty.

"Would it help to hit me? You can," Sherlock said. "It would make sense if you wanted to."

John squeezed his palms into his eyes. "I'm not going to hit you."

Sherlock shifted on the sofa. "What now, John? What do we do now?"

"We --" John shrugged. "We move on, I guess."  
  
"And we do that how? I mean, what do we do in the next minute?" Sherlock leaned forward on the edge of the sofa.

"We finish eating. We watch some telly. We go to bed. You'll find cases and do stupid experiments and I will go to work and yell at you."

Sherlock smiled. That was precisely what he wanted to do. But . . . he knew it probably wouldn't be quite as easy as that.

"Do you want to unpack tonight? Is the whole flat the same . . . the bedrooms?" Sherlock asked, wondering if they could at least pretend things were like before, at least for tonight, before everyone else got involved and John's shock wore off?

John nodded. "Everything is exactly the way you -- we left it," John said. He stood up and grabbed his bag. "I suppose I can go unpack."

"I'll go to my room for a bit then," Sherlock said. "When you're done, we'll watch television then?"

John looked over at him and wondered if this was how it was going to be from now on. Tiptoeing around each other, confirming plans -- even small ones like that. Would it ever be comfortable again? Simple? "Yeah, we can," he said finally. 

Sherlock tried to smile. He stood but before going to his room, he moved to John and stuck out his hand awkwardly. "I'm so sorry, John, but I'm glad to be back. I . . . I missed you."

John looked at Sherlock's hand, then up at Sherlock, and then at his hand again. He sighed, slowly set his bag down and looked at Sherlock again. "Am I meant to shake that, then?" He stepped forward, tugged Sherlock down and wrapped his arms around his neck. God, this felt good -- he smelled good, he felt warm in his arms, he felt solid and real.  

The sense of touch -- he had seen John, he had heard him, but now there was a touch. Sherlock slowly put his arms around and, for a moment, it did really feel like nothing had changed. It was good -- it just felt safe. John and home. It felt like saying all the things he'd wanted to say but couldn't find the words to do so.

John stepped closer and suddenly he was crying again, just softly, his face buried in Sherlock's neck. A small part of his brain must have been thinking that he was hallucinating because suddenly he felt so very relieved that Sherlock was real -- honestly here in front of him. 

"John," Sherlock said, but he didn't know what other words to add. He held his arms around John, let John's weight press into him. He didn't want John to go to upstairs, he didn't want to let John out of his sight. He didn't want to let go of John now.

John tried to move away, but he did so very slowly, glad to find it was hard -- that there was resistance. "Sorry," he mumbled. 

Sherlock dropped his arms. "It's okay," he said softly. "I think I'll . . . " What, he thought. What are you going to do, Sherlock? He thought for a moment before saying, "I think I might go to bed." It wasn't what he wanted to do but what he really wanted to do -- make it as it was before -- was not an option. He knew it was likely John would see it as him running away and perhaps it was. But after two years of being on his own -- being brought back into the world of emotions was confusing his head, making it hard for him to know how to act. "I'll just lie down for a bit. When you're done unpacking, come in if you'd like to talk, if you need anything." He hated that he was doing this, almost as much as he hated doing what he'd done. But this was overwhelming. "I think I just need a rest. I'm sorry."

"Oh. Yes, of course," John nodded. He let Sherlock go and then went upstairs to his room, putting his bag on the bed and sitting beside it. After a second he lay back and stared at the ceiling. This was how it was going to be until he was honest with Sherlock -- until he let it all out. Lying there by himself he realised that if he didn't tell Sherlock everything -- even the things that would hurt -- they would constantly be walking on eggshells. John would be terrified of something slipping and Sherlock would be constantly guessing and feeling bad. It wasn't fair to either of them.

Sherlock went up to his room. Pushing open the door, he stood for a moment, to take it in. So strange now to care so much about the concept of home. He set his things on his table, took off his shoes, and lay on the bed, without getting in. He looked up at the ceiling -- something he had done a million times. It had helped him think. Would it help tonight? The problem was, he didn't want to think. He closed his eyes.

John looked over at his bag and had no desire to unpack it. He felt tired and drained. He knew Sherlock had told him they could talk tonight but he didn't think he had it in him. Not after everything already. He got up and headed downstairs, knocking on Sherlock's door and peeking into his room. "Hey, I'm just going to go to bed as well. Um . . . we should talk tomorrow, or maybe the next day, okay? I think -- I think I'm going to have to if this is going to work."

He heard John's feet in the hallway before hearing his knock on his door. He opened his eyes. Part of him was grateful to not have to talk tonight. He looked at John and said, "Okay." He swallowed. "Is that it then, for tonight?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "I'm sorry . . . I just . . .I don't feel up to more, right now." 

"Fair enough," Sherlock said quietly. "But if anything happens, if you need me for anything, don't hesitate, okay?" He looked at John and smiled softly. "I'll be here in the morning."

He let the words hang in silence for a moment. When it got too much to bear, he added, "Which means you'll need to pop out to get us some milk for tea."

John laughed softly and shook his head. "I need to get a lot of things if were going to be living here again," he said. 

"We can make a list tomorrow," Sherlock said. "Good night, John. I'm glad you were here when I came by."

John paused for a moment and looked back at him. "What if I hadn't been?" he asked quietly. He wondered what Sherlock would have thought -- the place was obviously not lived in. Would he have come looking? John had stopped speaking to Mrs Hudson so she wouldn't have known where he was. Would Mycroft?

"I would have found you wherever you were," Sherlock said. "You know that, John."

"I thought I did," he said quietly. He shook his head and looked up. "What would you have thought, Sherlock?" He didn't know why this was so important to him. After all of the grieving he'd done he wanted it to mean something, to know that maybe it wasn't so easy for Sherlock either. And he knew that was wrong, wanting him to have hurt as well, but he couldn't help it. 

Sherlock didn't want to meet John's gaze. "It helped me to believe that you were okay, that you were waiting for my return. I couldn't afford to think otherwise. Two years gave me a lot of time to convince myself. When Mycroft mentioned that you had moved on with your life, I couldn't process it. I . . . didn't want to." He paused for a moment. "The last two years have been difficult, John, but I had the thought of you for comfort. I knew we'd be together again. I am so sorry you had to get through it without a similar comfort."

John shuffled guiltily in the door, rubbing the back of his neck. He went into the room and hesitantly hugged Sherlock again. "I'm sorry. Thank you," he mumbled. After a second he pulled away and left the room. So Mycroft thought John had moved on? Not even close. But that would all be explained later. 

Sherlock curled on his side on the bed. He was glad there had been another touch. He stared at the room, taking it all in again. He thought about all the mornings he had woken up on this bed. He didn't want to think about the last morning, though, the morning he woke knowing he wouldn't be coming back. He closed his eyes to all the memories. He was glad to be on a bed. He was glad to be home.


	2. The Talk

John headed upstairs with his mind racing. Well, that had been a right mess. Having admitted that he'd wanted to be missed hadn't made John feel any better. How was he going to get through everything else? He had to trust that things were going to get better when it was all out in the open. 

It took John a long time to fall asleep, but when he did it wasn't restful. He was having nightmares, starting with the usual rooftop scene, but then warping so that every time Sherlock fell it was somehow John's fault. And then it shifted, showing him Sherlock coming home, and then he was gone again, disappearing from his chair, sneaking out in the night, not having been there at all -- John finally woke up with a loud gasp and realised that he was crying. 

He was a bit confused, not having woken up to this room in a long time, and for a moment he was wondering why he was here until he remembered. Sherlock. But had all that been real? John felt ashamed that he didn't know -- it scared him. Had Sherlock really been here or had that all been a dream? He climbed out of bed and softly padded downstairs, heading for Sherlock's room. Just a quick peek -- that wouldn't be so bad. He pushed open the door and looked inside, sighing in relief when he saw Sherlock on his bed. _Can you trust your eyes, John?_ John swallowed hard and debated going in to touch him, to make sure he was really there. 

Sherlock had fallen asleep, but only for an hour or so. The luxury of a long night's sleep had never been a part of his life before he had met John and certainly hadn't been an option during the past two years. He opened his eyes to the darkened room. Then he heard a noise and he jolted up out of instinct, before remembering that no, he was home now, in a safe place. He lay back down and tried to go back to sleep.

He dreamt of John, of watching John. Sherlock was on top of the building across from the flat and everyday he watched John come and go. He tried to call to him, tried to get him to look up -- to see -- Sherlock. But John never heard him, never saw him. All day and all night, Sherlock waited on the roof for John to notice him.

Sherlock shifted in his sleep and then woke again, glad that was over. He turned and saw a shadow in the doorway. "John?" he whispered. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," John said quietly, hovering in the doorway. So he was back. It was real. "I just . . . had a bad dream."

"Come in," Sherlock said, sitting up from the bed. "If you want, I mean. Until you feel better enough to go back to sleep."

John hesitated, but he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep yet so he walked in, sitting on the edge of Sherlock's bed. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said. 

"It's okay, I was having a dream myself, I think," he said, "Do you want to talk about yours or just sit for a while?" He leaned back on the pillows. "Either one is fine."

"I don't want to talk about it," John shook his head. "Do you want to talk about yours?"

"Not particularly, I don't think I remember it," Sherlock said. It wasn't entirely true at the moment, but Sherlock hoped that thinking of something else would help him forget the dream's details. "We can talk more about things tomorrow, I guess. We should at least tell Mrs Hudson. Will you help me? It's not your responsibility, I know, but perhaps you could just be there."

"Yeah," John nodded. "She might need medical help," he teased. He felt better sitting here. The darkness wasn't crushing, and his dream was far and faded. It was Sherlock, he knew. He had a suspicion that if he were to sleep here he wouldn't dream at all, but that was not an option. 

"I could go for a cup of tea," Sherlock said. "I wish I had thought to pick up milk." He stretched him arms a bit. "I won't lie. It feels good being back in this bed. Well, on it, I mean. I guess I fell asleep before getting in." He looked at John. "It's good to be back," he said softly, as he adjusted himself. "Do you want to get more comfortable? You can lie over there if you want, there's room."

John shook his head. "I'll end up falling asleep and I don't want to impose. I should go back," he said, not making any move to get up. 

"I wouldn't mind," Sherlock said quietly. An image flashed in his mind of being alone in a cell. "Why don't you get comfortable? It doesn't matter what happens. Sitting up will just keep you awake. If you get sleepy, you can go back or you can stay. I'd like you to," he said, keeping the second half of the sentence deliberately vague.

John fiddled with his fingers, thinking it over. He'd been alone for so long. Hardly dated, never went home with anyone, and he could only assume that Sherlock had been alone as well. Maybe some company would do them both some good. "Okay," he said finally, scooting back a bit and laying down over the covers. But it was a bit cold. "I'll just get my blanket."

"Okay," Sherlock said. "Or you can get in. I should," he said, starting to move under the duvet. "It's a bit stupid not to sleep properly in a bed now that I've finally got the chance to." He stretched his legs down the bed and moved the pillow to get more comfortable. "I'd never thought I'd miss this bed," Sherlock mumbled, "but it feels very good at the moment."

John hesitated again before climbing under the covers as well, keeping to his side. "Where did you sleep before?"

"Mostly in not nice places," Sherlock said. "When Mycroft came to Serbia, I was in a cell. But let's not talk about that now," he said. "Let's put something nicer in our heads before we sleep." He turned on his side to face John. "Can I tell you something?"

In a cell? That meant he'd been caught. Brilliant, clever Sherlock had been caught and God knows what they did to him. John's stomach twisted but he couldn't even ask now, Sherlock had asked him not to. "Yeah, of course," John said, turning his head to face him. 

"When I was away, I think that I might have replayed every moment of our life together in my mind. Even the times you annoyed me," he teased. "It was like watching a film and it helped take me away from where I was. But," he lowered his voice a little, "sometimes, regardless of what I was doing, sometimes even when I was trying to really concentrate on something else, I would hear your voice in my head and I could picture your face as you spoke -- it was almost always one type of smile that you have -- your voice and your face would come into my head and it . . . made me feel like you were there with me and it made me feel better."

John turned properly onto his side and bit his lip. "The reason I came in here is because I - I saw you here several times before I moved out. But, you know, it was never you. Not really. And I keep dreaming about the fall - - I have almost everyday since it happened -- and when I woke up from this one, I remembered talking to you and . . . and I had to be sure." 

Sherlock dipped his head and closed his eyes. He felt horrible -- he remembered helping John through some of his nightmares and it felt horrible to know, not only had he caused more of them, he couldn't be there to help. He opened his eyes and looked towards John in the darkness. He reached over and touched John's hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

John looked down at their hands, turning his own so he could hold Sherlock's. His best friend had just come back from the dead -- sort of -- so surely it was okay to sleep with him, holding his hand, right? "I want to tell you everything that I went through, but I don't want you to feel bad," he said pointlessly. 

"Anything you want me to do know, I should know, regardless," Sherlock said, squeezing John's hand.

"There's no reason, really," John admitted. "I mean . . . nothing will change except we'll both feel guilty. And my brain might feel a bit lighter."

"I already feel guilty, John," Sherlock acknowledged. "If it will help your brain, you can tell me whatever you want. " Without even thinking, he moved his fingers over the top of John's hand. "I mean it."

"Not tonight, okay?" John said quietly. He curled his body a bit but again, he didn't pull away. 

"Whenever you want. One day we'll both know all we need to know. One day we'll be ourselves again, John, I believe that. I want you to believe it as well," Sherlock wasn't sure why but he felt an urge to pull John towards him. It was so unlike him, so unlike who he'd been for the last two years, but the urge was strong and clear. But he didn't do it. He didn't know how John would react, quite frankly he didn't even know how he himself would react.

John nodded. "Slowly," he agreed. "It's all going to happen slowly." Would it be so bad if, in the middle of the night, they ended up tangled together? Physical proof that Sherlock was here, alive? Perhaps his hand would have to do for now.

"I know," Sherlock said. There was silence for a moment. "John," Sherlock whispered softly, "Please stay in here for the night."

John nodded, but then wondered how well Sherlock could actually see him. It was very dark. "I will," he whispered as well, just in case. 

Very softly, Sherlock said, "I won't leave you again." He squeezed John's hand.

"I won't let you," John said quietly, holding his hand tightly. 

"I've missed you bossing me," Sherlock said, trying to lighten his voice a little, but then he added, "I've just missed . . . everything about you."

John's vision blurred and suddenly he was very thankful for the darkness. "I missed you, too," he said thickly. "The cases, the experiments, your violin playing, even the bloody body parts in the fridge" His voice gasped lightly there and he stopped talking. 

John's voice . . . Sherlock loved the sound of it. "I haven't played the violin in so long," he whispered and as he did, he slid himself closer to John -- not quite as close as he had the urge to be, but definitely closer. "Is this all right?" he asked quietly.

"Mmhm," John answered, not trusting himself to speak again for a couple minutes. 

"John," Sherlock said for no particular reason. He let his hand slide from John's and rested it on John's chest.

John brought his hand up to cover Sherlock's, holding it anyways as it pressed against his chest. He maneuvered his fingers and found Sherlock's pulse. Beating strong. Alive. Here.

Sherlock leaned in slightly and put his mouth on John's forehead, not kissing it exactly but instead moving his mouth to say, "I missed you."

John squeezed his eyes shut as his shoulders shook now. Embarrassed, he tucked his head down against Sherlock's chest and curled into him.

Sherlock stayed close to John, resting his head on John's pillow. He had been alone for a long time -- he hadn't really missed being around people, not even the people he knew. But he had missed John, he'd missed being around John. He closed his eyes, feeling John's head against his chest.

The sobs slowly died down but he didn't move away from Sherlock. "I made tea for you for days before remembering . . . I came home to an empty flat . . . I couldn't touch your things without remembering and eventually I couldn't even look at them. Everything here was you . . . I heard your voice, our old conversations, I had to leave, Sherlock. I had to. The nightmares . . . you were always falling and somehow it was always my fault. I couldn't save you. Not in the dreams and not in real life. I thought you died thinking no one believed you, that no one loved you. And I did, Sherlock. I did and it wasn't enough." The words spilled out of him without his control, muffled in Sherlock's chest as he lay there. 

"Oh god John," Sherlock said sliding his arm around John's back. "You're breaking my heart. I'm so sorry. I wish . . . it could have been different. I'm so sorry."

John clutched at Sherlock's shirt, pressing a kiss against his heart. "I'm sorry . . .so sorry about the things I said that day. You're not a machine, okay? You're human . . .the best human --" He cut off again, just taking a deep breath.

"I'm not, John," Sherlock said. "The best human wouldn't have done this to someone he loves."

"You had a reason. A good reason. I just didn't know," John said.

"Regardless," Sherlock said. "I hurt you. And I never wanted to do that."

John nodded. "I forgive you, okay? I want things to be like before. Better."

"That's what I want, John, but don't pretend that we won't need time to get there. Tomorrow you might be angry or hurt or need your space. Whatever you feel, John, I want to give you what you need. Whatever it is."

"I . . . was angry. Maybe I will be tomorrow, but you're different, Sherlock. What happened to you?" John could see the differences. He was more affectionate and apologetic and just . . . different.

"Much has happened to me, John," Sherlock said, "including realising what you meant to me, how you changed my life. How you changed me. I am not the same Sherlock who left." He paused. "Of course, I am still boastful, I am still selfish and thoughtless -- what more evidence do you need than how I handled this evening? But your friendship, John, has meant something. I am not always comfortable with it all, but I can't deny I am different."

John nodded. "I feel it. I can see that something is not the same. But it's okay . . . it's going to be okay," he said.

"That's all I want," Sherlock said, still holding John. "I want us to be okay."

"We're going to be different..." John sighed. "But maybe we'll be better than before, you know?"

"I hope so, John," Sherlock said. "I want us back." He swallowed, feeling a bit stupid about having said that. "I'm not like that usually. With sentiment. Perhaps it's just coming home. I don't know," he paused then added, "but it's how I feel."

John nodded. Slowly, he processed everything Sherlock said. _Did he say he loves me? I said it . . .right? What exactly is going on?_ John opened his mouth to ask but chickened out and shut it again. Maybe they were just caught up in the moment.

Sherlock tried to settle his brain and body. He didn't move -- he liked being close to John, he didn't care it was sentimental or not, it felt good. It felt like comfort, it felt like home. "Should we try to sleep now?"

John nodded against his chest. He waited to see if Sherlock was going to let him go or not. When he didn't, John didn't argue. He stayed there, curled close to Sherlock, reveling in the fact that he truly was there.

Sherlock fell to sleep. He woke a few hours later, with John still in his arms. He looked at John's sleeping face. He was so glad to be home with him. He slipped one hand to John's cheek, just to touch him. He seemed so soft and Sherlock's guilt reared again. He rolled on his back, with one arm still under John. He wished he could make all the bad go away, but knew he couldn't.

John's mind was clear when he fell asleep the second time, nightmare-free and deep. When Sherlock moved away, John came half out of his sleep and scooted closer, trying to curl around him again. It had been so nice. He dozed off again.

Sherlock turned back towards John, slipped his other arm around him and tried to sleep again.


	3. The Admission

A couple hours after that John woke up properly, blinking at Sherlock and smiling at him. He'd almost forgotten. And what a wonderful surprise that it had not all been some crazy dream.

Sherlock opened his eyes to John's smiling face. "Good morning," he said softly. "We're both still here."

John smiled wider. "Both still here," he said quietly.

Was it too weird to be lying this close when they were awake? Sherlock liked it. He didn't want to move but didn't want John to feel uncomfortable. He didn't shift his body, but rolled so his face was looking up at the ceiling. "I wish we didn't have to get up and face everything."

John turned to lay on his back as well. He pulled Sherlock's arm out from under him but when he was settled he didn't let it go. "Technically we don't. No one even knows you're alive let alone here. And Mrs Hudson probably won't come up."

Sherlock smiled. "How long do you think we could get away with it?" He wiggled his hand so it was holding John's. It was just something, a touch, and he liked it. "But John . . . the milk? We'll need supplies if we're planning on hiding away."

"Forget the milk, man! We're on the run now!" John laughed. God, it felt good to laugh. To laugh with Sherlock again.

Sherlock smiled. He wondered how the last two years would have been had John been with him. "Trust me, you'd be surprised the things you miss when you're on the run. We'll definitely need the milk," he laughed. "Let's stay in . . ." he caught himself, should he say in 'bed'? Instead, he said, "Let's stay here for a bit longer yet." He leaned over, opened the bedside drawer and grabbed paper and a pen. "Let's make a list," he said, writing milk at the top.

John didn't like the sudden lack of contact after so much of it, as if without it Sherlock would disappear again. Pretending he wanted a better look at the list, he scooted over so his head was on Sherlock's shoulder. "We'll need things for dinner -- pasta, meat, things like that."

Sherlock wrote as John spoke, adding a few other items. "Get all of today's newspapers as well, yes?" he said. "Don't be gone too long," he said. "I can try to tidy while you're out." He didn't move to get up though.

"Really?" John asked, not sure if he was being serious. He had gotten caught up in staying here all day, 'being on the run' for a bit. "I can step out later, I suppose. We do need food, after all."

"Yes, later," Sherlock said, curling up on his side. "I don't mean now. But someone should go and if we're going to hide, it'd be better if it were you." He looked at John. "Was the rest of your sleep all right?"

John glanced up, Sherlock's face so close to his. He nodded. "Much better than the first half of the night," he said. "Yours?"

"Good," Sherlock said. "Better once you came in, I confess." He smiled softly.

John nodded. "I noticed that, too. No nightmares," he said. 

Sherlock looked at John's face. "I have to tell you something," he said softly. He swallowed. Then he lifted his hand and stroked John's cheek. "While you were sleeping, I did this," he said. "I felt like I should tell you. I hope you don't mind."

John felt his cheek burn under Sherlock's touch and he shook his head slightly. "I don't mind," he mumbled. 

"I'm glad," Sherlock said, still touching John's cheek. "You're soft. You feel like comfort." He was looking at John and then suddenly it all seemed too intense and he let his hand fall to the bed. "Anyway, I wasn't sure if I was taking a liberty since you were asleep."

John's head twitched -- just the smallest amount -- in attempt to follow his hand. But it was gone and John lay where he was, looking to the list again. "It's all right," he said. 

"You should be a little more suspicious of people touching you when you're asleep. You could end up pregnant that way," Sherlock said, trying to lighten the moment.

John snorted a laugh and shook his head. "Tell me you're joking and you haven't just deleted the fact that men can't have babies."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Let whomever you want touch you while you sleep. Just don't come to me if you end up with a disease. I'm just trying to look out for you."

"Hey! I never said I was okay with just anyone touching me while I sleep," John said. 

"But you are when it's me?" Sherlock asked softly.

John looked up at his eyes again. "Yes," he nodded. 

Sherlock was not sure what he was doing but he decided not to stop. "Only when you're sleeping?"

John held his gaze and shook his head. "Whenever you want," he said quietly.  

"Even . . . right now?" This was making Sherlock's stomach jump.

"If you want," John nodded. 

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked in a way that made the question a thousand times bigger.

John bit his lip, took a deep breath, and leaned up to peck his lips. When he lay back again he forced himself to hold Sherlock's gaze. 

Sherlock didn't pull back or look away. "Did you want that before . . .?"

John shook his head. "When I started seeing Ella again she sort of . . .helped me see it. The way I was so affected . . .it was more, you know?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I didn't know it was anything like that. I don't know what difference it might have made to what I had to do, but I didn't know."

"Do you think it would have been harder?" John asked. "I'm not sure I would have never realised it if you hadn't left," John shrugged. 

"I don't know how it would have been different," Sherlock said honestly. "Are you okay with it? Before I left, you seemed pretty committed to making sure everyone in the world knew you weren't . . ."

"Because I thought . . .I thought there was time. I don't know. I knew something was different with us but I didn't want to see it . . .stupid," he added quietly at the end. "I don't want that to happen again. I don't want to waste time being stupid like that. You're so important to me, you saved me, you make me happy . . ." he trailed off and shrugged. "I love you."

"Are you sure it's not just grieving? Because of what happened? Now I've come home and it was a shock and . . . " Sherlock looked up at the ceiling. "Do you think it will make things more difficult for us now? I mean, it seems like you don't really want to go back to how it was, after all. There's so much now that's different . . . so much at once. I don't know how to be now . . ."

"I thought . . ." John trailed off and sat up suddenly. "I must have misunderstood . . . last night," he said quietly. "I did my grieving, Sherlock. I know what it was like without you, to want you home, to miss you . . . and now you're back and I know what that feels like, too. I guess it's a bit fast . . .I'm sorry."

Sherlock grabbed John's arm. "You've _not_ misunderstood anything, John. Lie back down." It was hard to look him in the eye, but Sherlock tried. "I didn't know how much I hurt you, I tried not to think about it because I didn't want to know. Surely you've noticed that's a skill of mine? I overthink some things and do not think about others. Last night, when I saw you again, I couldn't pretend that you were just . . . that you weren't more to me. And I couldn't deny that I wanted to touch you, to be physically close to you. But," he had to look away. "I have failed to be a good friend to you. I don't doubt I will fail at this as well. I do not want to be the cause of any more hurt."

John reluctantly lay back down and turned to face him. "Sherlock, if I had known that you had left, I wouldn't have been so upset. I thought you had _died_. Gone. Never to see you again. And I understand why you couldn't tell me. You didn't fail me." 

"It feels like I did, John. What kind of person does that to someone who matters so much? I did have reasons, but a friendship shouldn't come with a price like that. I worry what price you will pay if we are more than friends."

"You told me at the beginning that it could be dangerous," John reminded him. "You were gone and I realised that I wanted so much more with you, and I never thought I would get that. And now you're back and . . . well, if you feel the same, then I want you to stop worrying."

"If you change your mind," Sherlock said, moving his body closer to John's, "you will say? If tomorrow the shock is gone or if I annoy you and you want it to end, to go back to how it was before, you will say, right?" He reached up to touch John's hair.

"I will. I'll always be honest with you," John assured him. 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John's mouth softly, tentatively. He hadn't expected anything that had happened since he returned to Baker Street, certainly not this. But it all made a strange kind of sense. His fingers slipped through John's hair.

John kissed him back softly, bringing his hand to Sherlock's chest. 

Sherlock moved his legs so they were against John's. His mouth slipped to John's cheek and he kissed there as well, moving his lips as if he were speaking into his skin.

"I missed you . . . this contact -- it feels good," John said quietly. He rubbed Sherlock's back and side gently. 

"I missed you, too," Sherlock said and he felt his eyes start to well so he closed them and pressed into John, moving his arms around to stroke John's back.

"It's okay," John said, petting his hair and hugging him close. 

"I want to look after you properly, John, but I don't know how," Sherlock said softly into John's ear.

"It's okay," John assured him. "Honesty, remember? I will tell you if you need to do more," he said quietly. 

"Do I need to do more now?" Sherlock said. "What do you want me to do now?"

"You don't need to do more now. Just lay with me, okay? This is nice," John said. 

"It is," Sherlock said. He squeezed John to him, resting his head on John's shoulder. He could feel his body relax. It felt like home again and he was so grateful.

"I like being on the run," John smiled. 

"It's much better when I'm with you," Sherlock smiled. He kissed John's cheek again. "How's Harry?" he asked.

"Trying to get sober. Again." They had talked six months ago and he's heard nothing since, not a good sign. 

"I've missed so much of your life, John, I hate that thought."

"I'll tell you whatever you want, Sherlock. But it won't all be good," he admitted. 

"Did you find . . . someone else?" Sherlock asked.

"I tried. I was forced to try. Greg kept trying to take me out to pubs and setting up dates but it never went well. You know I was never good at dating on a good day," he joked to lighten the mood a bit. 

Sherlock thought of all the nights John had gone on dates, coming home miserable. Had he been the reason, even back then? "I wonder what he'll think about this."

John smiled. "He'll be happy. I think he knew . . . sometimes he looked at me and I could see it in his eyes, like he was sorry for me," he said. "He's a good guy."

"He was also at risk, you know. And Mrs Hudson as well," Sherlock said. "Let's not talk about that." He closed his eyes for a moment and tried not to think.


	4. Embarrassingly Sentimental

Sherlock opened his eyes again and shifted a bit in the bed. "I'm getting a bit stiff." He looked at John and laughed. "I mean, my body."

John chuckled, lightly pushing Sherlock's face. "I bet you are."

"Don't mock me, I don't know how to act," Sherlock pushed back on John. Then he gripped John's shirt and pulled him towards him, kissing his mouth again. "Don't be mean."

"If that was my punishment I think I might keep it up," John grinned. 

"I'm only doing it to shut you up. I prefer rewards rather than punishments anyway. You should see what you'll get if you speak kindly."

"Oh? Well then, um . . . your hair looks so lovely like that and I'm just drowning in your eyes and your smile . . ." John sighed dramatically and pretended to pass out from it all. He was laughing the whole time. 

"Oh no, no, no, John," Sherlock said, pulling back. "It's no wonder your dates were always disasters. Try again, please." 

"Shut up," John laughed. "I was only joking anyways!" 

"No, do it. Say something sweet to me," Sherlock said, tangling his legs with John. "I've not heard anything nice for a long time and I want it to be in your voice."

John looked over at him, squinting his eyes as he thought. "When you're concentrating on something, you pucker your lips just a little bit, and when I happen to catch that moment it makes my whole day." 

Sherlock thought about that for a moment. He'd never thought to notice anything about his face -- he never thought of someone else noticing it. "Thank you," he said quietly. "Now what do you want for your reward?"

"I thought you had something in mind," John smiled softly. "I feel like I've been duped." 

"I do have something in mind, but I'm worried it's more of a reward for me," Sherlock smiled. He pulled John on top of him, lifting his head to kiss him harder than before.

John fumbled a bit as he tried to keep his balance, kissing Sherlock back with a small hum. 

Sherlock slid his hands to the back of John's head, tipping it to deepen the kiss. Then he whispered, "I wanted to feel your weight on me. It makes me feel safe."

"I'll lay on you whenever you want," he murmured, panting softly from the kiss. 

"I feel embarrassingly sentimental at the moment," Sherlock said softly, stroking John's back.

"I won't tell anyone," he smiled. 

"I never want to hide anything from you again," Sherlock whispered. He pulled John's head down to his and kissed his mouth softly.

"I won't hide anything from you either," John promised. He pressed into the kiss harder. 

Sherlock took John's kiss and flicked his tongue against John's mouth. Even though his brain was nervous about it all, it was surprisingly easy, natural almost. He wrapped his arms around John, resting them on John's lower back. 

John opened his mouth for Sherlock, bringing his tongue forward to meet Sherlock's, humming softly as the kiss deepened.  

Sherlock made a small moan, it was so good, just letting go, knowing that for this moment at least, he didn't have to be on guard, to worry. He could just relax and be himself with John. He closed his eyes and kissed John harder.

John smiled into the kiss, running his hands along Sherlock chest and shoulders and neck. 

Sherlock loved being touched by John -- he wondered why they hadn't touched all the time before. It made electricity run through his body and he felt his face get warm. "John," he said, but wasn't sure what else to say.

"Mmhm," John hummed, moving to his along his jaw and down to his neck. 

"God, John," Sherlock said, shifting his body. It had been a very long time, yes, but Sherlock recognised what was happening. He tried to move out from under John's weight. "Wait, John, I . . . it's . . . something is happening." He felt flushed and was afraid to look John in the eye. "I'm sorry."

"What? What's wrong -- " John froze, Sherlock's attempt to leave actually caused his erection to press into John's thigh. "It's okay," he said, climbing off of him. "Don't be sorry," he added. 

"I am sorry, I'm embarrassed. It's just overwhelming," Sherlock said quietly. "It just felt so good and I've not been this close to . . . I didn't mean to turn it into more than you wanted. It just felt . . . good." He curled his body a little, trying to relax.

"It did feel good," John agreed. "And I wasn't far behind," he admitted quietly. But it was a good idea to wait. He was only just back and they had done so much already. "Don't be embarrassed, okay?"

Sherlock smiled weakly at John. He was embarrassed -- he had spent the last two years having to control everything about his life, even his body, and the first day back, he lost that control. But it had just felt so good . . . and, in truth, he didn't really want to stop, even though he knew they should. "Can we still touch a little?" he asked. "Will you lie behind me? You can trust me."

"All right," John said quietly, looking over at him. He lay down and curled up behind him.

Sherlock pulled John's arms around him. "I just feel like I want us to be so close. To make up for how far apart we've been."

John rest his forehead on Sherlock's back between his shoulder blades. "I know what you mean. I feel like I can't get enough."

"Me too," Sherlock said. "I wish it could be this, just us, forever. I don't care how sentimental that sounds. I've not had much comfort in the past few years, but quite honestly, John, I've never really had someone who makes me feel like you do."

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I know what you mean. This is different . . . a very good different."

"It is," Sherlock said. "Do you want to sleep a bit more? Then we can get up and face the rest of the world?" 

"Mmm, that sounds good," John agreed.  

Sherlock held John's arm. His eyes were sleepy again, and his muscles started to relax. "I love you," Sherlock said softly. 

John hummed softly and nodded. "I love you, too, Sherlock," he said quietly. He wasn't sleepy, but lying here was so relaxing he never wanted to move again. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the quiet, feeling every movement of Sherlock's breaths.  

Sherlock could feel himself moving towards sleep. "Keep hold of me," he said. 

"Always," John said, tightening his arms as if to prove his point. 

Sherlock slipped his hand into John's. He was safe, he was home now.


End file.
